For the better part of the first 20 years of my life, I grew accustomed to being considered a “young” person.
It came with its perks: the obligatory “You’re born in 2003?!” and well-meaning advice from older people who always seemed to be preaching the same message: enjoy your youth because it’ll be gone before you know it.
I vividly my first day of grade nine, sitting in my high school’s cafeteria as the principal addressed us. “These four years will by quicker than you can ever imagine, so enjoy it while you can,” he said. My bleary-eyed, 14-year-old self—having woken up at 7:30 a.m. not to be late—still had enough angst to scoff. I was convinced I would be different, that I could stretch out my four year of high school into an eternity.
But that’s not how time works. What has felt like a blink of an eye, more than seven years later, I’m now in my final year of university. Somehow, those four high school years sped past me, and another four in university followed suit.
Throughout it all, I never really felt like I was getting older. COVID-19 shielded my grade 12 self from interacting with any grade nine students, and when I came to university, I was just another clueless first-year, treated like a child who didn’t know anything. In my Orientation Week, a common message imparted to first-years was to be afraid, warning us about everything from physics courses to touching a golden party armour (the infamous engineering jacket). I was oblivious to everything about the school.
That was, until this year, when a first-year called me “unc” while I was selling tickets to Grease Pole, an Orientation Week event meant specifically for first-years. At first, I had no idea what that meant, but I was quickly informed it’s a term used on TikTok to call someone “old,” mockingly. Suddenly I saw myself on the other side, from the kid with all the questions, to the “unc” with all the answers.
What was meant to be a throwaway jab from a first-year bothered me a lot more than it should’ve. For the first time, someone saw me as the “older” person. In that moment, I felt like my high school principal, preaching nostalgia and the fleeting nature of youth.
For most of my life, I’ve been on one side of the coin, always being told the value of my youth. But, for the first time, I was forced to confront the reality that to at least one person, I was now my high school principal.
I’ve always subconsciously known this day would come. But tangibly feeling the shift was something else entirely. It prompted me to reflect on my role in my extracurriculars—realizing I’ve become the person answering questions rather than the one asking them.
For many, the fear of aging stems from the fear of dying. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel slight existential dread when confronted with the topic. The thought of one day being gone is far from a comforting one. But this fear of aging felt different—it wasn’t about death, but about lost time. I found myself grieving the opportunities I’d missed and the time I’d lost.
This year especially, I’ve watched people in my classes and clubs achieve incredible things—some landed prestigious internships, others published groundbreaking research. Each time, I couldn’t help but think, “What if I had pushed myself harder? What if I’d known about that opportunity sooner?”
When I was younger, these thoughts didn’t bother me as much¾after all, I assumed I still had my entire life ahead of me. But now, time doesn’t feel as infinite as it once did. I’ve begun viewing myself not as someone with potential, but someone with regrets—still trying their best to lessons on to a younger generation.
My love for sports doesn’t help, either. For athletes, being 30 is closing in on retirement, and being 40 is pretty much a death sentence. Every year, 18-year-olds are drafted into professional leagues, and I can’t help but compare their timelines to my own.
It’s a warped timeline that screws with your perspective on age and life. If you aren’t making millions by your 18th birthday or retired by 35, you’re a failure, and behind the curve of a typical professional athlete. But life isn’t a sports career, and for most of us, success isn’t confined to such a narrow window.
I’ll be the first to it it’s a reductive way of thinking, especially comparing myself to the select few with the right combination of skill and luck that become professional athletes.
I know time’s a one-way door, but I’m struggling to accept the fact I can’t enter rooms I’ve already left—not matter how badly I might want to.
Every so often, when I’m looking through the windows of the rooms of my life, mourning the time that’s ed, I catch a glimpse of my past self.
Sometimes I see the 12-year-old who just wants to drive. Other times, I see the 16-year-old who finally got his license but now wants to vote and own a credit card. At every stage, the only thing I wanted to be was older. It was never about my success or my career, all I wanted was the opportunity and responsibility that would come with age.
As a kid, I always wished to be where I am now—at university, living on my own—and now, I just want to be a kid.
My high school principal was right. These years fly by faster than you can imagine. But he didn’t say that, sometimes, the best thing you can do is stop looking back or forward and simply appreciate where you are now. So that’s what I’m trying to do—enjoy life while I can, just like he said.
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